


Get Rekt Arago

by ashatasha, mynameisyarra



Category: AR∀GO ロンドン市警特殊犯罪捜査官 | Arago
Genre: Fic War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 11:40:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12364971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashatasha/pseuds/ashatasha, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisyarra/pseuds/mynameisyarra
Summary: An ongoing fic war between authors ashatasha and mynameisyarra.  10 chapters, 5 each.  Authors do opposing genres/AUs/tropes and, while respecting what has been written in previous chapters, must wrench the fic into their chosen AU.  Yeah, we don't know where this is going either.





	Get Rekt Arago

**Author's Note:**

> tasha chapter!!

“You know he's gonna get you soon,” the Scorch says.  Its sweet face is twisted in amused pity.  As Arago creeps through the hallway, it totters after him, never further than a few feet.  “He's skilled at catching strays.”

 

Arago doesn't respond, can't respond.  He sneaks around with the grace he's earned with years of practice and jimmies open a door.  The Surgeon glances up, hands still disassembling the struggling Songbird.  With a jerk, sparks fly out of the shrieking figure as it falls silent and still.  Surgeon doesn't even bother glancing down as it shoves a new seed into Songbird’s gaping chest.  Songbird arches back up with a stuttering scream.  Arago waits impatiently as the noise fades down to the Songbird's usual low hum.

 

Songbird yanks itself up, eyes wide and wild.  “Ara-a-a-araa—” it whistles.  “ _Ara-a-g-go,_ two wee-e-eeks, _two weeks_!  Zero points!”  Its jitters rattle all the way down to its delicately carved toes, and the Surgeon tsks, whacking it gently with a rubber mallet.

 

Arago smiles faintly at them.  He taps his neck and makes a gesture—voice stolen.  All three dolls make an understanding noise at once.  Last time Arago had came by, the Patchman was able to snatch his voice away before he could escape.  He’s been able to narrowly escape the monster every time so far, but each time loses a bit more.  Hair color, a few teeth, scraps of flesh.  Nothing ever as much as the first time, though.

 

“Ewan is upstairs with Sniper,” Songbird croons, finally still enough to talk normally.  It peers up at Arago with golden button eyes, corn silk hair wisping up from the static running through its body.  “But—!”

 

“Patchman is also with them,” interrupts Scorch.  It drops its jaw in a facsimile of a grin.  “Wouldn’t you stay with us?  We can have so much fun together, nothing like that shell of a boy you keep coming back for.”  It stumbles into Arago’s legs, contact burning through his pants.  “I nearly got rid of him last week, but the Savior stopped me so he could lure you back,” it admits.  “Guess he was right.”

 

Before Arago can say anything—scold it? threaten it into _never doing that again_?—the Surgeon scrabbles to grab Scorch.  “Let go of him!” it snarls at Scorch.  Immediately, the two dolls recoil away with grace their clumsy movements belie.  Smoke steams up from the points of contact.

 

Songbird only cackles at the momentary panic.  “No good!” it jeers.

 

While Surgeon and Scorch are busy batting fire from themselves, Arago slips away.  The Songbird watches him go silently, so unlike its predecessors that Arago shudders.  It feels like an omen.

 

 _Here is death.  Here is He_ , proclaims a jagged carving on the wall.  It’s the first thing in sight after scaling the stairs.  Arago barely remembers digging the knife through the wood, so long ago, and he wants to laugh at how melodramatic he used to be.  Maybe he was religious back then.  Patchman, the God.  How befitting.

 

Sniper sees him immediately, as always.  The tall figure turns its head over and stares silently.  Its mouth is still sewn shut after the last time it had whispered advice to Arago, but it doesn’t need to say anything for him to hear the warning.  In all honesty, he doesn’t even need to hear it.

 

Here is death, clogging up the air and shuddering behind wood panels.

 

Patchman is nowhere in sight, but Ewan is.  In the musty air, the light streaming from the attic window forms a halo upon Ewan’s dipped head.  If Arago ignores the human table his brother sits behind, the seizing pieces tearing skin apart by the stitching, the scene almost looks poetic.  Angelic.

 

Ewan looks up from his chalice to smile faintly at Arago.  “Would you like something to drink, Brother?” Patchman says from Ewan’s mouth, in Arago’s voice.  “I had it drained especially for you.”  Something in a dark corner moans faintly, and Arago ignores it with the ease of long practice.

 

Ewan’s cheek is cold under his touch, and feels more like snow than human flesh.  Clammy flesh is still better that unyielding wood, though, and Arago sighs in relief.  Ewan still has time.  “Worried about me, Brother?” Ewan—no, the vicious smile screams Patchman—asks.  “You didn’t come back for the longest time, I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”  

 

Under his cursed touch, Ewan begins to gain color.  Arago inches closer for increased contact.  He grasps Ewan’s face with his hands as gently as possible, else the fragile skin crumble beneath his touch.  Ewan has his voice, so Arago can’t fill the air with his usual nonsensical reassurances, but his brother stirs to life anyway.  The smile drops off Ewan’s lips as Patchman loses his footing.

 

The agonized expression is comforting.

 

“...Arago,” Ewan says.  It’s definitely Ewan this time who blinks back tears at the sight of Arago.  The chalice drops from Ewan’s trembling hands and spills thick, congealing blood all over the floor.  His brother heaves a laughing sob as he rests his forehead against Arago’s.  “I told you last week not to come back.”

 

Arago doesn’t move away, but he wiggles two fingers in Ewan’s line of sight.  “It’s been two… two weeks?  Why aren’t you—” Ewan cuts himself off as he leans back and stares at Arago.  They could’ve used aura reading as a twin telepathy trick, Arago reflects as horror dawns upon Ewan.  “He took your voice.”

 

It’s not a question, but Arago nods anyway.  The hug Ewan pulls him into is cold, but still as comforting as it was before the Patchman had snatched them away.  The approaching footsteps only makes Ewan cling on harder, and Arago belatedly realizes the trap.  He only starts truly struggling to get away when Patchman casually hops onto the shuddering table.

 

“Where are you going, Brother?” Patchman says from two mouths.  Ewan’s eyes are calm and still as they gaze at Arago, buried underneath a heavy soul now.  Patchman picks up the dropped chalice as he watches Arago squirm in his twin’s suddenly strong grip.  When a flailing hand accidentally draws blood, Ewan’s skin stitches right up before Arago can even notice.  “Don’t you love me?”

 

Ewan starts to steam as he continues holding onto Arago, not giving an inch for a second.  Arago’s been stuck for too long, and now Ewan is paying the price.  With a giant heave, Arago yanks himself out of Ewan’s grip and fumbles with the window.  As he throws himself out of the attic, he feels Patchman’s lazy swipe graze his back.

 

His back is numb as he runs away from the abandoned house and into downtown proper.

 

Downtown is a relatively new experience, and Arago still isn’t used to the blaring lights, the scattered trees, and the giant roads.  After years of sneaking around in Patchman’s narrow hallways and clustered rooms, the city feels almost agoraphobic.  He sticks to alleyways and crannies that only the most desperate use as shortcuts, panting while his legs burn.  He rounds a corner and smacks face-first into someone’s torso.

 

The man Arago runs into barely manages to keep them both from falling over.  “Hey, watch where you’re going!  It’s not safe to just run onto the road like that,” the man says severely.  He moves to let Arago go, but then yanks Arago back into his reach.  “Wait, is that blood…?”

 

Arago shakes his head, pushing himself away.  It _is_ blood, though, and still wet enough that the action leaves behind crimson handprints on the man’s pristine white shirt.  He overestimates the man’s grip and ends up stumbling to the concrete.

 

“Woah, calm down, okay?” the man says hurriedly.  He holds out his hands in a pacifying gesture, stray blood stains on his palms either going unnoticed or ignored now.  When he takes a step forward, Arago backs away in a panic.  He’s _too close_.  “It’s alright, I’m not gonna hurt you.  Are you… are you running from someone?”

 

Yes and no.  Patchman is too smug and dignified to follow prey that’s guaranteed to return.

 

The man crouches down so that his prying eyes are in Arago’s line of sight.  “Listen, if someone is chasing you, I can help.  I’m with the Scotland Yard—my name’s Joe Sullivan.”


End file.
